But she had no time to mope; there was so much to do. Downstairs, the house was in chaos. She was halfway through painting the kitchen a vibrant primrose. She needed to put the first coat on today because the new cupboard doors were due on Friday and the paint had to be dry by then. So she climbed into her painting overalls, trapped her wild hair in a knot on the top of her head and turned the radio up loud, determinedly pushing aside the stabbing ache of her encounter with Finch.

She was still at it by early evening, stretched up on tiptoe, arm screaming, back protesting and paint dripping from the roller down her arm. Over the music, she heard a cautious knock at the front door. She sighed. At this hour it could only be Vera, complaining again. Bins or top road? Romy shook her head as she put the roller down in the tray, wiped her hands on her overalls and stepped barefoot to answer it, composing her face into a welcoming smile as she went.

‘May I come in?’ Finch asked.

Romy stood aside. She didn’t care, this time, that she looked as if someone had stepped on her face, that she was spattered with yellow paint, that her hair looked like a rusty Brillo pad. She didn’t care that her heart was being crushed to nothing in her breast, that her breath seemed trapped somewhere south of her ribs. She just walked ahead of him, back straight, without speaking, into the kitchen, and took up the sticky roller again.

Finch followed her, but also did not speak. He stood in the doorway and watched as she began the rhythmic rolling above her head again – back and forth, second coat, filling in any gaps where the old cream paint still poked through. The radio was playing a violin piece Romy recognized but couldn’t name. She felt as if hours passed like this before he spoke.

‘Looks nice.’

She stared at him, suspending her roller above the paint tray to catch any drips.

He gazed back and she heard him sigh.

She dropped the roller. Finch stepped towards her and she was suddenly in his arms, his mouth hot on hers, the tears running down her face as he kissed her again and again, until neither could breathe.

When, finally, they were both naked, back on the sofa where it had all begun, they lay very still, their bodies touching lightly, his skin like a feather laid against her breast. He looked into her eyes and all she saw was a longing so powerful it made her jolt with recognition at her own starved and pent-up need. She reached to kiss him again, savouring the beautiful familiarity of his mouth as, slowly, they began to make love.

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